


What's Past

by fourteencandles (thingsbaker)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/fourteencandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy who used to have Wilson's job comes back for a visit, and it turns out they have more in common than Wilson ever knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to Livejournal in 2007. No real spoilers past Season 1.

Wilson had always been a people person. In high school, he'd been elected to the student council without ever putting up a poster; in college, he'd been in a fraternity and the science club, and he'd floated easily between both groups with no problems. Even in the cutthroat world of med school, he'd managed to have his cake (number 1 in his class) and eat it, too - at the after graduation parties of five different classmates. And now, at Princeton-Plainsboro, he'd been voted Clinical Staff Member of the Month three times in the last three years - twice in January and once in February. Even the guy least likely to ever win that award liked him - hell, House was sleeping with him, that was beyond like. Wilson was, for lack of a better word, popular.  
  
It wasn't that there weren't people who didn't like him. His ex-wives, for example, weren't his biggest fans, and he'd had to give his share of bad news to unsuspecting patients over the course of his career. He also sat on the hospital disciplinary committee - or he had, until his friendship with House had proven too much of a conflict of interest - so there were some bad feelings, there. That was all reasonable. Reasonable people could dislike his actions, but in general, Wilson was likeable. Liking Wilson seemed to be everyone's default starting position.  
  
Which was why Karl Nathanson drove him nuts.  
  
Nathanson had been the head of oncology before Wilson. He was a wry, intense, slick politician of a doctor with a very solid research portfolio, and he'd been perfectly friendly when he'd interviewed Wilson to join the oncology staff. After Wilson had accepted the position, though, things had changed very rapidly. For no reason that Wilson had ever been able to figure out, Nathanson had had it out for him. Wilson spent his first six months at Princeton doing grunt work, stuff that interns should have been doing, not work suited for a man who had just finished a prestigious fellowship at Sloan-Kettering. He'd tried to talk to Nathanson several times and heard nothing but bland platitudes about rookies needing to earn their place. When Wilson had finally complained to Grant Halloran, the hospital administrator, word had gotten back to Nathanson almost immediately - and Wilson had spent his second six months doing nothing more exciting than skin cancer check-ups.   
  
After that, he'd had two options: keep his head down and look for another job, or try and get things fixed. The hiring of a new hospital administrator - one Lisa Cuddy - had given Wilson his opportunity. She'd already had an unpleasant run-in with Nathanson by the time Wilson talked with her, and so he'd been promoted very quickly to associate head of the department. A year later, just as Wilson's tenure was coming through, Nathanson had left for a job at the new M.D. Anderson satellite in Austin. The rest was history, which was exactly how Wilson wanted it all. He considered it a dark little chapter of his own life, but a chapter long since finished.  
  
Which was true until he saw the message from Cuddy waiting for him on his desk that Monday.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
Princeton had a number of speaking series going on at any time. It wasn't really a surprise to see Nathanson on the program for the upcoming Caligento Human Studies Lecture; he'd done some interesting work at UT. What was surprising was the tidy note on the message sheet:  _will be here all week; wants to see you, Tuesday or Wednesday_.  
  
Wilson wanted nothing to do with meeting Karl Nathanson anywhere, for any reason. Just thinking about the guy made his skin twitch. He crumpled up the message but couldn't quite make himself throw it away; instead, he stuck it in his pocket and then went next door.  
  
"I need an excuse," he said, walking into House's office.  
  
House didn't even look up from his computer. "You were with me," he offered.  
  
Wilson took a seat across from House. "Not an alibi, an excuse."   
  
"Keep forgetting you're not married anymore."  
  
"It's been a year," Wilson said. Cameron's presence in the conference room kept him from reminding House that it had been a year during which Wilson and House had been having some pretty decent, if somewhat casual, sex.  
  
House glanced over, just for a second, before returning to his computer. "Keep forgetting you're not married  _again_." He clicked his mouse furiously, and Wilson craned his neck to see what he was playing. Something with very small orange fish.  
  
"Hey," he said, knocking on the surface of the desk, "I'm asking for your help, here. You have special powers for avoiding people. I need your expert, anti-social advice."  
  
House scowled briefly at the screen, then lifted his hand from the mouse and turned to Wilson. "All right," he said. "Who are you avoiding?"  
  
"Karl Nathanson."  
  
House blinked. After a moment's pause, he pushed the mouse away. "Well, that shouldn't be too hard," he said, "seeing as though he's in Texas. I know it looks close on MapQuest, but there's a thing called 'scale' that we should discuss."  
  
"He's giving the Caligento speech next week," Wilson said, leaning back in his chair. "Here."  
  
"So just don't go to the speech," House said. "I can't imagine he's jumping at the chance to see you." House had been around during Nathanson's reign, too. They had, in fact, been neighbors. Wilson remained a little surprised that the hospital had survived such a concentration of antisocial behavior. "Unless you two have kissed and made up?"  
  
"God, no," Wilson said. "At least, I didn't think so." He pulled out the crumpled message and tossed it to House.   
  
House read it and looked surprised. "Maybe he's mellowed," he said. "Detente?"  
  
"I didn't start the war," Wilson muttered.  
  
"He was probably just jealous of your good looks," House said, grinning. "Now that you're older and uglier, you two will probably be the best of friends."  
  
"That'll work, since I'm about to have an opening in that position." Wilson shook his head. "So no advice? No great words of wisdom, no foolproof plan for how to avoid him and/or make his life hell?"  
  
"Hey, that's your battle, not mine," House said, reaching for his mouse again. "Make love not war, man. Speaking of which, you coming over tonight?"  
  
"Classy," Wilson said, standing and taking the memo back. "And, yeah, if I get away from the transplant committee meeting on time."  
  
"I'll get pizza." Wilson nodded and put the memo back in his pocket. As he reached the door, House called out. "Just blow Nathanson off," he said. "Tell him you have some major medical emergency to deal with. Have one of the other guys show him around. He probably just wants to see the building."  
  
Wilson nodded and went back to his office. It was good advice. Tim Nelson had been around when Nathanson had been director; he probably wouldn't mind showing him around. Wilson could ask him. Hell, he was the boss, he could make Nelson do it.  
  
He was the boss. He shook his head. This was ridiculous. There was no reason he couldn't be a professional about this. Karl Nathanson, dickhead or not, was a respected cancer researcher and oncologist. Wilson ran what was arguably one of the top five cancer treatment centers in the country. If Nathanson wanted to talk, professional to professional, Wilson could be an adult about it. What was past, after all, was past.  
  
He called his assistant and told her to clear some time for Nathanson on Wednesday morning. And then he grabbed his case files and wondered what the chance of anyone having a major medical emergency that week was, and hoped - just for a second - that it was high.  
  


* * *

  
  
Wilson spent the night at House's place on Tuesday but took his own car in. Though he'd been giving himself the I'm-a-professional speech all week, he needed fully-leaded Starbucks fortification before he could face Nathanson.  
  
Nathanson was waiting at the oncology reception desk, talking to Anita, a big grin on his face. He looked a little different - close-shaven hair instead of the dark mess he'd had before (probably to cover up the gray, Wilson thought), and he was in better shape, with a Texas tan (clearly not spending enough time in the office), but his booming voice hadn't changed a bit. He laughed like thunder, and Anita's high giggle overtop sounded ridiculous and somehow made Wilson feel left out.  
  
He took a sip of his quadruple-shot cappuccino and stepped forward. "Karl," he said, holding out his still-gloved hand.  
  
"Jim," Nathanson said, the grin still on. He shook Wilson's hand, a good, firm shake. "Coffee still sucks here?"  
  
Wilson smiled back. "Inconsistent at best," he said, and Nathanson actually laughed.  
  
He followed Wilson back to his office, and on the way, they made pleasant, professional small talk: Wilson told him about the hospital's new lab, Nathanson talked about the research they were doing on GD2, they compared notes over the last issue of  _Cancer Research_. There was a brief, awkward moment as they entered the office, when Wilson realized he was still using the same desk that Nathanson had had - it was a good desk, really, and had been pretty new when Wilson had moved in - but things were OK. Nathanson had, apparently, mellowed. He was attentive and maybe even impressed as they walked through the oncology wing; they even had a great discussion of the new PET scanners GE had been testing, while they stood outside of radiology, and Wilson was surprised to find himself enjoying the morning. He was so used to being the boss that he forgot, sometimes, what it was like to speak with someone who was an actual, level-on colleague, someone who didn't have an agenda to push with him.  
  
Beyond that, taking Nathanson around afforded Wilson a little bit of celebrity. They ran into Nelson and Erica Blake, both of whom remembered Nathanson, and Wilson felt a little thrill of pride. His staff got to see him interacting with Big Bad Nathanson, and Nathanson got to see how the staff interacted with him. Win-win.  
  
"Looks like you run a good ship here," Nathanson said as they waited on the elevator. "Blake was always sharp."  
  
"She was published in  _Blood_  last spring," Wilson said.  
  
"Yeah? That's excellent." Nathanson patted the wall of the elevator. "I can't say I miss the weather, here, but you've got a good set-up. I'd love to see that lab once it gets running. We've been looking into getting something like that at UT, but I'm in a war with the administration over what's necessary."  
  
Wilson nodded. "I know how that goes," he said. He was feeling generous, and a little guilty about all of his earlier dread. "Say, if you're still around tomorrow - I don't know what your schedule is like, but I was going to have a walkthrough with Dr. Cuddy and the contractor tomorrow around nine. You're welcome to join us."  
  
Nathanson smiled as they got out of the elevator. "That sounds good, actually. Let me check one thing." While he tapped on his Palm Pilot, Wilson spotted Chase coming down the hall and nodded in greeting. He walked over as Nathanson confirmed the time for the next day, and then Wilson introduced him to Nathanson.  
  
"So, you work for House, huh?" Nathanson said, shaking his head. "How's he doing?"  
  
"He's House. Can't imagine him being any different," Chase said, and Nathanson shook his head. Chase turned to Wilson. "Actually, he's being a bit of a bastard today. Think you could stop in and talk him down?"  
  
Wilson rolled his eyes. "I can't promise miracles," he said. "I'll drop by after lunch."  
  
"Uh-oh, who's going to feed him, then?" Chase asked, then laughed. "I'll tell him." He waved before turning toward diagnostics.  
  
When Wilson turned to Nathanson, his face was, suddenly, blank. "I'm sorry to cut this short, Karl, but -"  
  
"That's fine," Nathanson said. "I think I've seen enough."  
  
His tone was the tone that Wilson had been waiting for all day: sharp and cold. Wilson nearly flinched. "Ah. OK," he said. He had walked a few feet down the hallway, and Nathanson hadn't followed. "Well then, it was, ah, good to see you."  
  
"Sure," Nathanson said. He turned and hit the button for the elevator, and his back stayed turned.  
  
Wilson, flabbergasted, stared at him for a minute before turning around and walking to his office. Inside, he closed the door. "What the fuck?" he whispered. Things had gone so well all morning. Maybe, Wilson thought, sitting at his desk, Nathanson had thought he was bragging when he'd talked about the meeting with Cuddy.   
  
Or maybe the guy was just a jerk.  
  
His phone rang, and Wilson answered it reflexively. "Yeah?"  
  
"You survived?" House said.  
  
Wilson rubbed his forehead. "Mostly," he said. He tried to shake it off. "That's why you're calling?"  
  
"Lunch?"  
  
"I have a meeting with Cuddy at noon."  
  
"Great," House said, "who am I supposed to eat with?"  
  
"Cameron?"  
  
"Have you looked at her? I don't think she even eats. Food looks at her like cancer looks at you."  
  
Wilson smiled, just a little. Nathanson wasn't a part of his world; why was he even worried about this? "If you can make it through the day, I'll bring Chinese tonight."  
  
"I guess that will do," House grumbled, but Wilson could tell he was smiling. He ducked his head into House's office on his way to Cuddy's, though, just to make sure.  
  


* * *

  
  
That night, they did have Chinese. Wednesdays were a slow television night, but they'd been working their way through "Footballers Wives" one DVD at a time. While Tanya Turner screeched on screen, being her usual bipolar conniving self, Wilson thought about Nathanson. He'd tried to tell House about the scene earlier that day, but House had blown the discussion off. Wilson wasn't ready to let it go.  
  
"I wish you'd seen Nathanson today," he said. House didn't move, just kept his eyes on the television. "You don't get it." He set down his empty carton. "It was like a snap reaction. Like I said I was going to meet with Cuddy, and all of the sudden he just turned back into the monster."  
  
House gave him a long, sideways look. "Brain problem?" he said.  
  
"What? No," Wilson said. "House, I'm not asking you to diagnose him."  
  
"Then could you shut up? I'm trying to watch the tee-vee."  
  
Wilson groaned. "Fine," he said. He picked up his finished carton and House's empties and took them all to the trash in the kitchen, then got himself another beer from House's fridge.   
  
As he walked back out, House said, "Hey, are you staying tonight?"  
  
He shrugged, then realized House couldn't see that. "I don't know," he said. "I guess. I don't have to be in until 9 tomorrow."  
  
"Lazy bastard," House said, and Wilson laughed.   
  
It wasn't an every night thing, between them, and that wasn't Wilson's fault. This was what House was capable of - casual and easy. Wilson got that. The only serious relationship he'd had in his life had been five years with Stacy, and that was an anomaly. House hadn't ever said that explicitly, but Wilson was an excellent reader of people. He'd seen House after that breakup, and could, therefore, understand his reluctance to try anything that serious again.  
  
Beyond that, House still seemed to be getting used to the guy thing. Wilson had experience in this area - part of his popularity in college and med school had been based on his equal-opportunity dating - but he could understand why House needed to take things kind of slow. So Wilson was waiting it out.  
  
He sat on the couch again and looked over at House, who was, Wilson could tell, only barely watching the show. Maybe what Wilson needed was a distraction. "How well did you know Nathanson?"  
  
House sighed. "Why?"  
  
"Because there's got to be a reason," Wilson said.   
  
"Please give up," House said.  
  
"No," Wilson answered. "This guy seems to hate me. I want to know why."   
  
"Because he's a dick. And he's always been unreasonable."  
  
"I guess." Thing was, though, Nathanson had seemed perfecetly reasonable all morning. Maybe it was seeing Chase - maybe Nathanson just didn't like young doctors. That made Wilson feel a little better, and he turned to House. "That's twice today that you've said something nice about me, albeit backhandedly."  
  
House huffed and paused the DVD. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"One," Wilson said, ticking off a finger, "you said food looks at Cameron like cancer looks at me. Implying that I am, in fact, a good doctor."  
  
"This is sad," House muttered, but he looked intrigued.  
  
"Two, you just implied that everyone who doesn't like me is an unreasonable dick." Wilson grinned. "I think you may just like me after all."  
  
House kept staring at him, and though his face looked completely blank, Wilson could see the slight twitch of a smile fighting to get through. House turned back to the television, and Wilson knew he'd won. He leaned closer. "So why don't you prove it?" he whispered.  
  
The smile won out, then; House was smirking when he said, "Why don't you?"  
  
So Wilson did.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, they rode into work together, though Wilson left House in the lobby to talk with Chase and Cameron about some new case. He rode the elevator up to his own office, practically whistling. Amazing how a good night's sleep and a little likeability-reaffirming sex could improve his whole outlook on the world.  
  
Karl Nathanson was waiting inside his office. Outlook: damaged.  
  
"Uh, Karl," Wilson said, taken aback.  
  
"Anita let me in," Nathanson said. He was sitting in one of the consult chairs, dressed in a full suit, his hands folded over one knee. "Though I promised her I wouldn't tell you."  
  
"Noted," Wilson said, hanging up his coat. He edged toward his desk, his eyes trained on Nathanson, expecting the monster at any moment despite his soft voice. Surely he wasn't here for the tour, still.  
  
"Listen," Nathanson said, after Wilson had taken a seat. "I, ah, I owe you an apology."  
  
"Oh," Wilson said, surprised. "Well. No, it's not -"  
  
"Not just about yesterday," Nathanson said. "Back when I was - well, when I was you. I wasn't very kind." He rubbed his forehead, and looked ready to say something else for a moment, then put his hand down and looked at Wilson. After another pause, he said, "So, I'm sorry. You're a good doctor, you're obviously doing good work here."  
  
"OK," Wilson said. He met Nathanson's eyes. "Well, thank you, Karl," he said. "I really - it's not a big deal."   
  
Nathanson nodded. "OK." A heavy, awkward silence settled in, and Wilson knew that just within those few seconds, his chance to ask why had passed. Nathanson looked down, then up again. "Would you - could I still catch that tour this morning, do you think?"  
  
"Sure," Wilson said. He stood up, not knowing quite what to do. At the very least, they should get out of the office, he decided. If they went where there were other people, maybe one of the other people would intervene and stop the awkwardness. "Listen, do you want some coffee?"  
  
Nathanson smiled, the real smile, the non-monster smile. "That sounds good."  
  
They went to the first-floor cafe, where Wilson could get a strong cappuccino. Wilson called Cuddy's assistant, en route, and found out Cuddy would be a little late for the tour, so he steered Nathanson to a seat at a small table. No one from oncology was anywhere nearby; just Wilson's luck.  
  
"So, how long are you in town?" Wilson asked, casting around for something to break the silence.  
  
"Through the weekend," Nathanson said.  
  
"Catching up with old friends?"  
  
"Actually," he said, "I'm here for a conference."  
  
"Oh yeah? The genetics thing?"  
  
Nathanson smiled, a thin, almost shy smile. "Actually, no," he said. "I'm giving a speech at the GLMA conference in Atlantic City on Saturday."  
  
Wilson took a sip of his coffee to cover his surprise. GLMA. The Gay and Lesbian Medical Association. "Really?" he said. "Wow. I mean, that's great. I didn't even know that was going on." Nathanson nodded. "Have you, ah, been a member for long?" he asked, and then winced at his own question. "Never mind, you don't have to answer -"  
  
"It's OK," Nathanson said. "This isn't going to make a lot of sense to you, but I actually owe you this explanation. I came out around the same time I moved to Austin. It was just time for me. Part of the reason I was such a jerk when you started was - well, it was a rough time for me. My first serious relationship with another man was breaking up around then, and - I was just going through a lot." He smiled, a sad but still friendly smile. "It's not an excuse, but - there it is. It wasn't you."  
  
Wilson nodded. He didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to give Nathanson some sign, to say, I get it, I do, and part of him wanted to say, What the fucking hell? Are you serious? How does this make any sense? He took another sip of his coffee as a compromise between the two. The cup was almost empty.  
  
"So, what about you?" Nathanson said, his voice pleasantly casual. "Anita told me that things didn't work out with you and Christina."  
  
Wilson almost choked on his last sip of coffee. He set the cup down. "That was three wives ago," he said, and Nathanson's eyebrows went up.  
  
"Wow," he said. "Huh. So, uh, not married now?"  
  
"No," Wilson said. It didn't feel too weird to say it, anymore.  
  
"Seeing anyone?"  
  
"Yeah," he said, thinking of House, then shrugged. He glanced around, out of habit.  
  
"Office romance?"  
  
"Something like that," Wilson said. "It's - complicated."  
  
Nathanson grinned, a smile that was both collegial and friendly and maybe even a little bit teasing. "It always is," he said.  
  
The tour went well. Wilson was pleased with the progress on the new wing, and Nathanson had been impressed with their projected equipment layout. They spent a half-hour afterwards talking through some of the alternate designs Wilson had been looking at, and then Nathanson glanced at his watch. "I've got to run - lunch with another old friend," he said. "But I'd love to talk more about this."  
  
"Sure," Wilson said, shaking his hand. "Drop in later today, or any time, really. And - you've got my number, right?"  
  
They exchanged information, and Wilson was glad to have Nathanson's contact info. He figured they could, actually, become friends now.  
  
"Is it weird," he asked House, settling in at their table at lunch, "that I like him better now that I know he's gay?"  
  
House coughed and bent over his tray. "Uh, he told you that?"  
  
"Yeah," Wilson said. He explained about the conference.  
  
House raised an eyebrow. "That's all he said?"  
  
Wilson shrugged. "He mentioned that he was going through some kind of breakup when I first started, and he apologized for being a dick."   
  
"He just - came out to you?"   
  
"Yeah," Wilson said. He took a bite of his salad and thought back over his conversation with Nathanson. "It was a little weird. He actually said he owed me the explanation. That it had something to do with why he was such a jerk." As he said it, the pieces aligned in his head, and Wilson set his fork down. It all made sense, in a twisted sort of way. Nathanson had been difficult with him because Nathanson had been attracted to him. It explained almost everything. "Do you think he had a thing for me?" he asked.  
  
House groaned. "No."  
  
Wilson picked his fork up again. "That's it? Just no?" He took a bite of his salad, then shook his fork at House. "It explains everything," he said. "It's third grade romance logic. He wanted me, he couldn't have me, and so he was mean to me."  
  
"Or not," House said. "You aren't irresistible."  
  
Wilson grinned. "Or maybe I am," he said. "All the hot doctors want me."  
  
House rolled his eyes. "Right now, all the hot doctors at this table want you to shut the hell up." House tossed his napkin over his own lunch and leaned back in his chair. "Maybe he actually was going through a breakup."  
  
"And I'm sure I wasn't helping."  
  
House snorted. "Yeah, on that I bet you're right," he said. He stood up. "I've gotta check on the new patient."  
  
Wilson watched him go, smiling just a little to himself and feeling very wanted. He finished the rest of his salad and all of House's fries, then got a bottle of water - his nerves were shot after the caffeine from the morning - and headed back upstairs.  
  
As he walked past House's office, he glanced in. Nathanson and House were standing in the middle of the room, talking, and Wilson grinned. Here was the perfect chance to prove his point to House. He swung open the door with a smile. "Hey, guys," he said.  
  
When House looked up, it wasn't with his usual annoyance or amusement; it was alarm Wilson saw on his face, panic, something like an oh-shit-I'm-caught look. He didn't have time to study it before House's eyes narrowed and his expression snapped back to its normal, irritated mask.  
  
"Don't you knock?" he asked, stepping away from Nathanson and toward his desk.  
  
"That's usually my line," Wilson said, but he felt, suddenly, uneasy. Nathanson was looking between them with flat curiosity. "I thought you had to check on your patient?"  
  
House shrugged. Normally, Wilson would have pressed him for more - letting House sit in a bad mood was like letting a steak marinate in a bad sauce. It would only get more bitter with time - but they had a visitor. He offered Nathanson an apologetic smile, and was surprised to see Nathanson giving him a similar smile in return. "OK," Wilson said. "Just wanted to check in."  
  
He started out the door, and Nathanson followed him into the hall and then over to his office. Inside, before Wilson could open his mouth, Nathanson said, "Same old bastard, isn't he?"  
  
Wilson started to reply, and then he looked up at Nathanson's face. He looked sympathetic, and a little bit... wistful.   
  
Wilson sat down. "House," he said, shaking his head as the pieces fell into place. "House was the break-up."  
  
Nathanson nodded, slowly, and took the chair across from Wilson. "No one knew about it. We met when he was working the renal unit." Nathanson shrugged, which gave Wilson the time to do that math. That meant they'd probably been together for a while. Years. He felt a little light-headed.  
  
"We're - he and I -" Wilson started, but Nathanson cut him off.  
  
"I know," he said. "I figured it out yesterday. It's part of why I told you, today."   
  
Wilson looked up. "You said you owed me an explanation - is this why?"  
  
Nathanson nodded. "I was jealous," he said. "You and Greg - you hit it off right away. By the time you joined the staff, everything was a fight between us, and when he clicked with you - it's funny, really, that you are together now, because I accused him of it ten years ago." He smiled, not his full, slick smile but something smaller, more genuine. "You have to understand, it was a whole different world, then. We didn't even talk at work. He kept a separate apartment just so no one would get suspicious."  
  
"You lived together," Wilson said, and Nathanson nodded.  
  
"I thought I was over it," he said. "I figured I'd come back and see that nothing had come of it - you were married, and I heard he'd been with a woman for a while - and it would be fine. But then yesterday, when that doctor asked you to go calm him down -"  
  
"We're not out," Wilson said. "We're not - anywhere close to it. That's just how we've always operated."  
  
"Yeah," Nathanson said, and he had that same wistfulness back in his voice. "Still, that's much more intimacy than we probably ever had."  
  
He left, pretty quickly, after that. Wilson stayed in his office. He wasn't sure what to make of it all. House and Nathanson? Living together? It ruined all of his theories on why House wasn't ready to take the next step with him. It ruined a lot of the other things he'd thought he'd known, too.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, he drove around for an hour or so, trying to find something that sounded even reasonably good for dinner. Eventually, he decided on Chinese, and drove to House's condo and let himself in. House looked up from the couch. "Hey," he said.

Wilson nodded. He didn't know what to say, now that he was there. He wasn't ready for the meaningful talk, not yet. That was the beauty of House; he could put it off forever, if he wanted to. "You eat yet?"

"I could eat again," House said.

Wilson tossed House his cell phone. "Get some extra lo-mein," he said, hanging up his coat.

He went to House's bathroom and took a long, hot shower. He thought, for the first time in two days, about his own patients. He thought about paperwork he needed to do. He needed to call his mother. He needed, really, to get back to the normal, happy world that he'd had before Karl Nathanson had shown up.

Wilson got out and toweled off, then found some clothes from House's bedroom that he could wear. House had moved to the far end of the couch, and Wilson sat on the other side, still rubbing a towel through his hair.

"So," House said. He waited for a moment, but Wilson didn't feel a need to make this any easier on him. He was curious, in a masochistic way, to see where House might go. "How was your day, dear?"

Wilson shot him what he hoped was a good, nasty look.

"Well, you're here," House said, "so I'm guessing I don't need to sleep with one eye open." Wilson concentrated on drying his hair. "What did he tell you, exactly?"

He let the towel drape around his shoulders. "Let's see if I've got it right. You two were lovers. For a while. Two years?"

House shifted. He looked very uncomfortable, and Wilson liked it. "Closer to three," he said.

Wilson nodded. "You broke up around the time that I started at Princeton and, according to him, I was part of the reason. He said he was jealous of the way you and I 'clicked.'"

House took a short breath. "You weren't the reason," he said.

"Oh no?"

"You were - a catalyst," he said, finally, his voice uneasy.

Wilson shook his head. "Ten  _years_  ago, Greg," he said.

They sat in silence, for a bit, and Wilson could almost feel House getting tenser beside him. Finally, Wilson said, "What else haven't you told me?"

"How can I even answer that?" House asked. "What exactly do you want?"

Wilson shrugged. "I want you to stop sabotaging my reality with your fucked up past." House snorted. "I want to know that I'm not going to get blindsided by stuff like this again."

"If I'd thought there was really a chance -"

"Oh, bullshit!" Wilson was surprised to be angry. He'd been pretty blank until now, but suddenly his face was hot and his ears were ringing. "You had all week to tell me. At any point when I was talking about Nathanson, you could have said, 'And by the way, we used to be lovers.'"

"I didn't think he was going to tell you," House said. He'd warmed into his usual tone of righteousness, which made Wilson want to throttle him. "I didn't think he wanted you - anyone - to know. I couldn't just out him."

"Of course not," Wilson said. "You can't even out yourself." He dropped his head into his hands, ran his fingers through his wet hair. "Christ, House, I've spent this whole time thinking you'd never even been with another man."

"I never said -" 

"It was  _implied_ ," Wilson argued. House looked at him blankly. "You asked for directions," he said pointedly, and House's cheeks flushed, just slightly.

"It was ten years ago," he said. "And contrary to popular belief, it's not just like riding a bike, or people would marry their bicycles."

Wilson was trying to come up with a response to that which didn't include angry, incoherent cursing when there was a knock on the door. House got up, after the second knock, and went to the door. Wilson heard him making the transaction with the deliveryman, and he tried to take a moment to focus his anger. What was he most angry about? That House had lied - omitted the truth - about his relationship with Nathanson? That was almost par for the course with House. He was a secretive bastard. So was it that he'd been with a man before? That rankled, yeah, but mostly in relation to Wilson's own assumptions: that it was a struggle with a new sexual identity that had been keeping House from letting things get serious between them.

House set the Chinese food on the coffee table, and Wilson looked up at him. "What are we doing?" he asked.

"Getting too much MSG in our diets?"

"Not what I meant," Wilson said. House sat on the couch again, a little closer than before. "What's going on, with us?"

House shrugged. "You need a label?"

"I need a fucking map," Wilson said. "I've spent all this time thinking you wanted to keep things casual because it's your first time with another man, that you were holding me off because you were quietly freaking out about your sexuality."

"When have I been quiet about anything?" House asked.

Wilson looked over and saw that House was trying to make a joke, but he couldn't handle it. "You're right," he said, standing up. "I should have realized."

"Wilson -"

"You let me believe it because you didn't want to tell me what's really going on." Wilson walked over and got his jacket. He dropped the towel onto the back of the armchair and didn't fold it. Let House deal with it for once. "You don't want things to get serious between us."

"Oh come on," House said, still sitting on the couch. He had his chopsticks in one hand. "We've been fucking for a year. What do you want, a medal? A ring?"

"No, House," Wilson said. "I want to move in." 

He watched House's eyes widen; the color returned to his cheeks. "Uh, here?"

Wilson nodded. "With you," he said. "I'm sick of this going the way it is. I don't like casual. I like committed."

"Evidence to the contrary," House muttered. 

"That's what I want," Wilson said. "Say yes."

House looked away. "No," he said.

The word took Wilson's breath away, even though he'd been expecting it. He concentrated on the floor. When he could speak again, he said, "OK. That's what I needed to know," and walked out.

* * *

Wilson bought a cappuccino on the way in the next morning and knew he'd need another before lunch. No one was waiting in his office.

He'd spent the night back at his own apartment. His shitty, tiny apartment, his supposed-to-be temporary apartment. He'd had a thing for House for years, absolutely years. Maybe not so long ago as Nathanson thought, but a very long time. When they'd finally, finally hooked up, in the summer the year before, that was really Wilson's thought on the whole thing:  _finally._  Since then, he'd spent three or four nights a week at House's place - occasionally more - and he'd been very happy about it. There hadn't been much forward movement in their relationship - they hung out, they mocked, they fucked, they had dinner - but Wilson kept thinking it was only a matter of time. House was a logical person, and he would see, eventually, the logic of the two of them being together in a more serious relationship. Wilson had really believed he could wait him out.

It hadn't occurred to him, until the night before, that maybe it wasn't the situation; maybe it was him. Maybe House was never going to be ready to live with Wilson because he was never going to  _want_  to live with Wilson. The whole thing had probably been a game for him, a way of passing time. Something cheaper than hiring a hooker.

This kind of realization made paperwork sound good, made breaking bad news sound like a fucking day at the circus. When his assistant knocked on his office door and asked if he was ready for grand rounds, Wilson drained his cappuccino. "Bring it on," he said, and followed her out the door.

He didn't see House at all that day. It wasn't that hard to avoid him. Wilson had an entire department to run, after all, and a whole wing under his auspices. He did his paperwork sitting at the nurse's station instead of in his office. Generally, that wasn't ideal, because patients' families would stop to talk and everything would then take twice as long to complete, but now he was glad for the distractions. It was easy to give comfort, and it was also a little bit comforting to remember how good he was at his own job. Nathanson was right - he was doing good work here. They had a great set-up. Sloan-Kettering and M.D. Anderson could battle it out for number one, but Wilson's program had gained significant attention during his tenure. There were days when Wilson could see it all clearly, the future of the Princeton program laid out before him. He could see retiring from this job in twenty years with some real accomplishments behind him, moving PPTH into the top five. He could see retiring with some real recognition.

That was the kind of logic that had gotten him through his marriages and his divorces, through not having any kids, the idea that work could be his legacy. But with House - it was different. Wilson felt a little sick to his stomach just thinking about it, now, but things were different when he was around House. Around House, he saw a different role for himself. The James Wilson he liked most came out in House's presence, the one who could argue a moral point for hours and really, truly mean it, the one who existed for more than just his work, the James Wilson who was a person, a good person, first. It wasn't just that he acted as House's conscience; it was that being around House made him refine his own conscience. It made him a better person to be with House. 

And then there was the fact that he loved the guy.

He'd been through this, though. He knew that loving someone wasn't enough; he'd seen that with his wives. He'd loved them all, maybe not in quite the same way but in an earnest, honest way, and it hadn't ever been enough. Not for them, not for him. Funny, that: it seemed he had learned a lesson somewhere along the way. He'd been the cheater in his first two marriages, the one who had given up first. In these last two long-term relationships, though - with Julie, and now with House - he was the leavee, the one being left. It made him want to send flowers to Christina and Megan, because fuck,  _fuck_ , this  _hurt_.

And he had no one to talk to about any of it. Except, maybe, Karl Nathanson.

* * *

Wilson drove to Atlantic City the next morning on his own, resolutely not thinking about the last time he'd taken a trip that way. He drove directly to Nathanson's hotel, which had been Nathanson's suggestion when they'd talked the night before.

"Complimentary conference registration," Nathanson said when they met in the lobby. He handed Wilson a GLMA folder and a blank, plastic-encased nametag. "Have you eaten already? The buffet is pretty good."

Wilson took the tag from him. For a moment, he considered not writing in a name, or even just putting his last name only: Wilson was pretty generic, after all. But hell, he was here, and he was at least a little queer, so it was probably time he got used to it. He wrote "James Wilson - Princeton" on the tag and pinned it to his lapel. "Show me the way to the buffet," he said.

The conference was part meet-and-greet, part issue advocacy, as most conferences were. Wilson reviewed the schedule over breakfast, while Nathanson chatted with just about every doctor who walked past. "I come every year," Nathanson said, shrugging. "This is my seventh conference."

"Ah." Wilson set down the schedule and took a bite of his cereal, though his stomach felt a little unsteady. Probably the two cappuccinos on the drive over.

"And although I do think you're a social type," Nathanson said, "I don't think you're just here to hang out." His eyes narrowed, just slightly, and Wilson shrugged.

"I needed a break." He wasn't ready to get into his problems with House yet, particularly not over breakfast in a room full of other doctors.

Nathanson nodded, slowly, a nod that said he didn't believe Wilson but wasn't going to question him. "I have a pretty full day," he said, "but if you stick around, we can get a drink after my talk."

"I'd like that," Wilson said. A woman in a green suit tapped Nathanson on the shoulder, and Nathanson looked up at her and then back at Wilson. "Go ahead," Wilson said, smiling, "I've been to medical conferences before, I can find my way."

He did find his way, pretty easily, to a talk on caring for patients with Burkitt's Lymphoma, and then to a lecture on GLBT patient care. Along the way, he saw a few familiar names, but mostly kept to the back of the rooms. "First time?" a man asked him in line at the buffet.

"Yes," Wilson said, wondering how the man had guessed.

The man smiled. "I can't promise we'll all be gentle," he said, then laughed. "But we'll try."

It was just like any other conference, really. Wilson liked conferences. He liked being surrounded by the cool enthusiasm of his peers, liked looking around a room and knowing that they were all on similar pages. And here, of course, there was more than one page they shared, which was nice. It was like a sub-specialty conference. Wilson tried to relax and just listen, just hang out. He tried not to think about the fact that House would rather set himself on fire than attend this type of conference.

Nathanson spoke after dinner, in the main ballroom. His lecture was called "When The Closet Can Be Your Friend," and was discussing when it was appropriate for a doctor to share his sexual orientation with his patients. Nathanson seemed to be arguing that it was almost never relevant for a doctor to disclose the information within a professional setting, "but, this shouldn't keep us from behaving like human beings. Neither a heterosexual nor a homosexual doctor should be swapping weekend conquest stories with his patients; but where does the limit end? Should I keep my office clear of gay debris, or is it OK to display a picture of my partner by my computer? If I choose to hyphenate my name, does that mean I have to answer patients who ask why? At what point does privacy look like shame?"

Wilson swallowed hard. He knew the precise answer to that question. He'd been living it, and not even realizing it. He slipped out the back door of the ballroom and stood in the hallway, keeping his head low. He felt off-balance. All of his concerns and fears from the night before had come rushing back. He stepped away from the wall and walked back toward the lobby. On the way, he saw a bar, and instead of passing by, he went in and ordered a beer. The bartender glanced at his nametag, and Wilson felt vaguely ill. None of the people at this conference would like him very much if they knew about his three ex-wives, probably; and his current "proof" of being gay was sleeping with a man who probably would deny the whole thing if he was ever asked. Yet, to this guy, here he was, Dr. Gay.

The bartender set down his beer, and Wilson took sip immediately. "Gotta tell you," the bartender said, "you look like you could maybe use something stronger."

Wilson nodded. "Good idea," he said, pushing the beer back. It tasted too bitter, too much like House's place. "Got any bourbon?"

He knocked back two full glasses and had started on a third when a man sat at the barstool next to his. "Larry," he introduced himself. Wilson tapped his nametag, and noticed Larry had one that matched. NYU, it said below his name. "You have a specialty?" he asked.

"Oncology," Wilson said. "Yours?"

"ENT," he answered, signaling the bartender for a drink. "What he's having," he said, and the bartender nodded.

"Good choice," Wilson said, meaning his specialty. "Everyone's got an ear, nose, and throat. Not everyone has cancer."

Larry smiled. "I hadn't thought of it that way. You know Ryan Sommers, at Princeton?"

"Sure," Wilson said. The name was familiar, but he couldn't put a face to it. "Good doctor."

"Did my residency with him," Larry agreed.

The room was pretty full, Wilson realized, much more full than it had been when he'd come in. He glanced at his watch and realized he'd somehow drank right through Nathanson's speech. "Fuck," he said, shaking his head. "I missed dinner."

The bartender set Larry's drink down, and Larry handed him some money. "James, I can get you fed," he said, taking his drink in two fast swallows. He put his hand on Wilson's shoulder. "If you're interested."

Wilson was drunk, but not so drunk as to not understand what was happening. His mind flashed briefly through a litany of reactions: first panic; then an instinct to reject him - cheating! cheating!; then an angry little flare that said oh, revenge could be sweet; and finally,  _maybe this could be fun_. He looked Larry up and down, really looked at him, took in his tan, muscular arms, his lean face and hungry eyes, his broad shoulders and very straight teeth. He was Wilson's type, actually. The whole world thought he was gay, he should at least get something out of it. Wilson took the last swallow of his drink and said, "Yeah, OK," and slid off the barstool. He'd made it about three feet with Larry when he realized he hadn't paid his tab, and turned around. Larry said he'd wait at the door, so Wilson wobbled back to the bar to settle up. After he'd paid and left a nice tip, Wilson started for the door - and Larry - and ran into Nathanson en route.

"Whoa, there," Nathanson said, his hands steady on Wilson's shoulders. He looked at Wilson for a moment, and Wilson couldn't help glancing over to where Larry was standing, looking a little surprised and pissed. Nathanson turned, too, and Wilson saw him glare at Larry; Larry disappeared almost instantly, and Wilson scowled.

"Hey," he protested, but Nathanson's grip had tightened.

"Not a good idea," Nathanson said. "Come on, I've got a better offer for you."

Wilson felt himself being steered to the elevator. He stopped on the way to throw out his name badge. No one needed to see him like this. As they rode up, Nathanson didn't touch him. Wilson rested his head against the side of the car. "I love him," he said, almost to himself, watching the metal wall fog with his breath.

"Yeah," Nathanson said, taking Wilson's arm over his shoulders, "I got that impression."

Wilson remembered being taken to Nathanson's suite, and he remembered sitting on the bed while Nathanson went to get him some water. He didn't remember exactly how he'd gotten under the blankets or lost his shoes, and when he woke up, he really didn't remember how House had ended up in the room.

But House was there, and he was yelling at Nathanson.

"Is this your revenge? You come up here and fuck everything up and fuck him in the process?"

"If that were true," Nathanson said, "why would I call you?"

Wilson pushed himself up and fought back a wave of dizziness. The bedside clock said it was morning, just past eight. Oh holy fuck, he thought, the day before coming back to him. He closed his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning, letting House and Nathanson's argument become just a low rumble in his ears. No getting out of this, he thought, and he pushed himself off the bed and walked into the sitting room. 

House was limping aggressively back and forth while Nathanson stood by the doorway. Nathanson's eyes flicked over to Wilson, and then back to House. "This is between you guys," he said. "Just don't get any blood on the carpet, OK?"

He slipped out before Wilson could say anything - thank you, or please don't leave me alone with him. Wilson was in his undershirt and pants, and he felt very rumpled and uncomfortable. He tried to pat down his hair. House stopped and turned to him. His eyes were wide and wild. "Don't you look well-rested," he said.

"Jesus," Wilson muttered. "I didn't sleep with him."

"But you would have!" House shouted. "Why else would you come here?"

Wilson put a hand out to steady himself on the doorframe. "Because I needed to talk to someone who'd been through your shit before," he said. "And why is it your business, anyway? Did I just imagine us breaking up?"

"We didn't 'break up,'" House said, actually using finger quotes.

"Yeah," Wilson said, raising his own hands. "Because we were never really 'together' in your mind." He rubbed his forehead. His brain had clearly had enough of this, and was trying to escape through his eyes. "Fuck. I can't do this with you, not yet. Go home, House, OK?"

He turned around, walked back into the bedroom and then to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and tried to decide whether he should make himself throw up. His stomach felt wobbly, but not desperately so. Mostly, the pain was in his head.

When the door swung open, he didn't turn, just sighed. "Seriously," he said, surprised at the raw quality of his own voice. "Go home."

"This is because I don't want you to move in?" House asked. He limped in and leaned against the wall by the door. His cane made a funny squeak against the tiles as he fidgeted.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "In part. It's also because you've been lying to me. And because, you know, for once, in our entire history together, I asked you for something for myself, and you said no."

House snorted. "I say no to you all the time."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "But I've always thought it was because you couldn't say yes. I thought you were, I don't know, scared, emotionally stunted, unable." He turned around, leaned back against the sink. "It turns out, you are capable. You just don't want to be with me."

House looked down. Wilson could see his jaw working. Even now, closed up in this room that Wilson could easily fill with his rage, Wilson wanted to reach for him. He wanted, like always, to make things easier for House. He wanted to tell him it would be OK - but it wouldn't be, it couldn't be. He set his own jaw.

After a moment, House nodded, just slightly. "Yeah," he said. "OK."

Wilson stayed perfectly still. "OK," he echoed. He crossed his arms. The pounding in his head came in long waves. He'd take a shower, clear his head. Maybe he'd drive out of here, take a weekend trip. Maybe a day or two away from House would be enough to let him go into work as a human on Monday. House sighed, and looked up, and his eyes were sad and brilliantly blue. Maybe Wilson could get his office moved. To Florida. "Could you go, now?" he asked.

House nodded. He step-thumped out of the room and swung the door shut behind him. Wilson closed his eyes. OK, he thought. It's over. His stomach ached, and he lowered himself to the edge of the bathtub, pressed his hands to his abdomen and against his chest. Would it feel like this every time he watched House leave a room, from now on? He turned and pushed his head against the wall, and wondered how long he could stay there, in Karl Nathanson's bathroom.

The answer was an hour. Nathanson came back and pounded on the door, and Wilson made himself shower and get back into his clothes and put forth the best face he could. "Coffee?" Wilson asked, stepping into the sitting room.

Nathanson said, "I'll buy you breakfast."

They ate in the cafe on the first floor. Most of the conference attendees were stumbling out through the lobby, and a few waved at Nathanson as they passed. "They seem nice," Wilson said.

Nathanson shrugged. "They're like any group of doctors," he said. "We're an egomaniacal bunch."

"Some of us more than others."

Nathanson nodded. He had both hands around his coffee. "The thing is," he said, "he drove two hours just to yell at you."

"That's House," Wilson murmured into his own cup. "No distance too great if he gets to mess up someone's day at the end."

"You  _get_  him," Nathanson said. "I don't buy that this is all a shock to you. You went in with your eyes open."

"No," Wilson said. He looked up and met Nathanson's eyes, trying to let him know that this conversation was over. "I just thought I did."

Nathanson saw him off at the front door of the hotel. "Conference is in Miami next year," he said. "Think about it."

"I will," Wilson promised.

"Bring Greg."

Wilson laughed. "In a body bag, maybe."

He walked out to his car, at the edge of the parking lot, and stopped halfway there. A familiar Chrysler was parked just next to it. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. He rubbed his face with one hand. The wind was cold and coming in gusts, and he had to walk forward just for the break from it.

He tapped on House's window. No more feeling bad; he was angry. "Which part of go home did you not understand?"

House rolled the window down. "I have no idea what you just said."

"So what's new." Wilson set his bag on House's hood and leaned against the car. He watched House struggle out of the car and didn't try to help. "Why are you still here?"

"Needed a jump start," House said. Wilson stared at him until House looked down. "I drove all this way," he said.

"Yeah, me too," Wilson said. "Only I came here to get away from you."

"If you lived with me, that would be even more difficult."

Wilson scoffed. "Why, you're right. I'd never considered the fact that living together would mean I'd actually be closer to you. Wow, now that I see your point -"

"You've gotta understand," House said, and his tone was both exasperated and, maybe, a little desperate. "The last guy I lived with had to move halfway across the country when we broke up." He looked over at Wilson, just briefly. His eyes weren't moist or wide, but there was a tiny flicker of uncertainty there. "I'm too old to break in a new oncologist."

Wilson put his hand on the cold metal of the hood. "House," he said, "what are you saying?"

House shrugged. His breath came out in a puff of steam. "I'm saying whatever it is you want me to say."

"No. Say something."

"We can live together," he said. "You want to move in, that's fine. I'm a bed hog, I sometimes don't do laundry for weeks at a time, and I'm not taking the girly magazines out of the bathroom, but -"

"Wait," Wilson said. "What's changed? I don't - why are you saying this now?"

"You really didn't sleep with Nathanson?"

Wilson laughed. "He's involved with someone."

"So are you," House said, and Wilson felt a tiny flush of warmth at the words. "But that hasn't always meant something in the past."

"It would," Wilson said, carefully. "It does."

House nodded. He shuffled a single step forward, and looked at Wilson from underneath his cap. "Buy me breakfast," he said.

Wilson shook his head. He put his hand on House's biceps. Anyone looking might think he was steadying him, which was probably why House allowed it. They had never touched like this in public before. "I'm going to kiss you," Wilson said.

House nodded. "Do what you have to do."

Wilson leaned in, touched House's face with his right hand, and kissed him. House didn't touch him, but he was there, kissing back. Wilson pulled back, but only slightly. "I'm going to want more," he said.

"Yeah," House said. He glanced back at the hotel. "I figured."

"And that's - OK with you?"

House shrugged. "We'll fight," he said. "We're gonna fight all the time. But I'm a stubborn bastard, and you're tougher than you look. Usually."

"I'm way tougher than Nathanson," Wilson said.

House snorted. He ducked his head. For a moment, just a second, his hand pressed into Wilson's on the hood of the car. "So buy me breakfast and then we'll go home."

"OK," Wilson said. He stepped back, then tossed his bag into the backseat of House's car instead of his own. They'd have to drive home separately, but for the moment, Wilson wasn't moving any further away than he had to.

 

 


End file.
